


Arrows and Arteries

by Kvaesir



Category: Call of Cthulhu (Roleplaying Game), Dick Hardy's Investigators Office, Original Work
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23651386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kvaesir/pseuds/Kvaesir
Summary: Wounds will always cause pain. Not all of it is physical.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: Dick Hardy's Investigators Office





	Arrows and Arteries

If you asked Ruth, She’d tell you her father’s death no longer affected her. She’d been young at the time and her paternal grandparent’s treatment of her, Alice and their mother had given her new purpose. There wasn’t time to sit moping when there was her sister to look after and revenge to plot.

Of course, when people say that they’re usually lying.

The truth was that she thought of her father each and every time she notched an arrow and loosed it from her bow. She’d gotten used to it. Become practiced at pushing the thought from her mind and getting on with the job at hand. Focus was important when there were lives on the line. She couldn’t be thinking about wooden bullseyes when the actual targets were far deadlier, when they fought back.

They’d slipped up in the sewers, leaving Morgan’s shoulder split open and Dick with the job of stitching it back up. She’d gotten hit too, a sharp arrow finding its mark in her upper arm and blood slowly soaking into the shirt she’d borrowed from Morgan’s flat. It would probably stain. Hopefully he didn’t mind too much.

Clearly she’d zoned out for longer than she had realised because by now Dick was finished with Morgan, chair moved closer to her and rag in hand, and Morgan had already shrugged his jacket back on. They were both giving her an odd look. Rather than acknowledging it, she simply pulled the shirt sleeve up and let Dick get to work.

It wasn’t as painful as the first time she’d been stitched up. She wasn’t 6 anymore, sobbing into her father’s arms after archery club because a stray arrow had sliced her arm. He’d shushed her for an hour while she flinched away from the needle with every stitch.

She wasn’t crying now, as Dick stitched over the scar that arrow had left. At least, that’s what she’d tell you if you asked.

Of course, when people say that, they’re usually lying.


End file.
